


bright and blinding

by jeannbeann



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: F/M, Gen, Just in case anyone was wondering, THIS IS LATE BECAUSE HIS BANNER ALREADY PASSED BUT!!!!, also sharena's 'meet the heroes' thing on lif confirmed he wears a mask so, and i need that claude alt, anyways this is soft and mushy, but HEY i always live on the edge of destruction when it comes to gacha games!!, but also dying because cyl4 is coming up, hes +5 now and im thriving, i hope everyone had luck with his banner!!! i summoned the boy, kiran is still the vice-president of the "protect lif" club after sharena, no beta like usuaaaal, not quite romance but the hints are there, rated T only for a bit of python's potty mouth but nothing serious, this is a bunch of little drabbles tied together into one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannbeann/pseuds/jeannbeann
Summary: "When the warmth of Breidablik’s power ebbs away, there is only light."/Líf is summoned back to Askr. Kiran helps him adjust.(little drabble to celebrate Líf finally being in FEH!)
Relationships: Líf/Summoner | Eclat | Kiran
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	bright and blinding

**i.**

When the warmth of Breidablik’s power ebbs away, there is only light.

His eyes strain against it, unaccustomed to how _bright_ the world is suddenly, brilliant and warm. The world slowly comes into focus, little by little, and something in his chest catches at the familiarity of it all: the too-blue skies, the touch of sunshine, the colours of the castle gardens. It all slips into place, pieces of a puzzle he thought shoved away long ago. He swallows thickly against the blooming dread and hope warring in the pit of his gut at realizing he truly is in Askr—not his Askr, long dead and grey, but the one that he has _yearned_ to see again.

Then the smoke flitting about the Summoning Stone clears. The hole where his heart should be aches when his eyes fall on white and gold, as painfully familiar as the stunned face staring back at him from beneath a hood. He knows it isn’t his Summoner, he _knows_ , but there’s already a traitorous part of him twisting at how identical she is to the one in his memories. Feh hoots at him eagerly from where she’s perched on the Summoner’s shoulder, genuinely pleased to see him—they both are, judging by the grin that blooms on Kiran’s face once her surprise fades. She huffs out a surprised laugh, as bright and warm as the rest of the world around her. She then tugs down her hood, oblivious to how it makes an ache bloom inside him.

“Man, took you long enough!” she announces, but she sounds too happy to be genuinely bothered by the sparse bag of orbs sitting by her feet. She beams at him, eyes glassy, as she tells him, “Welcome back, Líf!”

He wants to tell her to leave him be, to send him back to the world he has long since resigned himself to stay. He wants to remind her that he isn’t the same Líf she has likely fought and triumphed against. He wants to slink away, feeling discomfited being bathed in so much light.

Instead, he ignores everything inside him that screeches he doesn’t deserve this, and bows his head to quietly accept the silent contract Breidablik offers him to fight alongside her once more.

**ii.**

Of course, in accepting the contract, he intends to serve her from the shadows: a steadfast soldier on the battlefield willing to cleave down whatever enemy threatens her and this Askr, but a whisper everywhere else. He is not meant to exist. He died long ago, and all that remains are the tattered bits of him that still want, desperately, to protect the things he failed to all that time ago.

Kiran does not seem to understand this—or more likely, she is paying it no heed.

He stiffens when she falls into step with him while on the way to the library. He had thought it a safe window to visit, during the same time everyone else is typically in the dining hall, enjoying a meal together. He realizes now that he’s miscalculated her ability to read the Heroes around her, most of all him. “Should you not be eating, Summoner?” he asks her quietly, mindful to keep his tone even and polite. The formality may rankle her, but it’s his one weapon to try and keep her at bay (a fruitless battle, perhaps, but he still intends to _try_ ).

“I was gonna ask you that,” she admits with a sheepish smile. “Aren’t you hungry? And before you say anything, I’ve seen Thrasir eat at the dining hall before. She’s told me that she doesn’t technically _have_ to, but she still enjoys eating her favourite Emblan-styled dishes whenever they’re served.” She pauses and he feels her eyes on him for a long moment before she adds, lightly, “They’re serving herb-crusted trout today, you know. Isn’t that one of your favourites?”

It is. He barely remembers the taste of it now. “It is Alfonse’s favourite, I believe,” he agrees mildly, unwilling to fall for her tactics. “Perhaps it would be best for you to find and remind him.”

She only laughs. “Nah, don’t worry, I already did. He was buried in books again, so I made sure to drag him out of his study to go and eat properly. As smart as he is, he’s not always the best at taking care of himself,” she sighs. Her eyes prickle from where they’re still gazing up at him. “I’m used to doing it for him at this point.”

Líf does not reply. He isn’t certain how to, especially not with the irrational jealousy that pricks at him whenever he thinks of his counterpart here, living with everything Líf has already lost.

Kiran, however, doesn’t seem to expect an answer. Instead, she moves ahead of him, quicker than he expects, and blocks him from taking another step without crashing into her. He stops abruptly—he doesn’t have the nerve to touch her—and his brow furrows, a question already on his lips. He stops when she takes something out from behind her back and holds it out to him: a bundled package, wrapped in a cloth patterned with ridiculously colourful little figurines. He recognizes them immediately as something from her world. His Summoner had also been fond of the little characters, finding them cute, and—

He stops that train of thought quickly.

“Here,” Kiran says, with a small, near-shy smile. “I made it myself, so it might not compare to the chef’s cooking, but I figured that…that maybe a bit of home-cooking would help to make you feel a little more at home.”

“This is not my home, Summoner,” Líf reminds her, slowly.

Her smile fades a little at that, but she still doesn’t back down. “It…it isn’t the same one you had, I know. I’m sorry. I would bring that instead of a little boxed lunch, if I could,” she jokes half-heartedly, but he still knows she means it. “Still, Askr is home for all the Heroes that are willing to help fight for it, and that includes you, Líf. You don’t have to consider it a replacement for yours, of course, but…maybe you could see it as a refuge?”

She holds the bundled lunch a little higher. He stares at it, unable to meet her beseeching gaze. He knows accepting it means accepting more of her meddling—following him around to check on him, to ask him to accompany her on patrol, to simply have small talk over everything and anything. He also knows that _not_ accepting it means something, too. It will undeniably hurt her feelings, and while she’s stubborn enough to continue attempting to befriend him nonetheless, it will certainly dishearten her.

He tells himself it’s a worthy price to pay for keeping her at a distance. It will hurt both of them to entertain a relationship once more. He is accustomed to being alone; she must still learn.

And yet he still finds himself slowly reaching out to accept the bundle wordlessly.

Kiran blinks at him, just as surprised by his choice as he is. To her credit, she recovers quickly and lights up with excitement instead. “Let me know what you think, okay? I made it the way I _thought_ you’d like it, but I can always change things around in the recipe, so don’t hesitate to let me know if it’s too spicy or not spicy enough or…well, you get it,” she clears her throat, almost sheepish by her own rambling. She fiddles with the cuff of her sleeve—a nervous tick of hers, he remembers—as she seems to fumble for what to say next. He half-expects her to urge him to eat everything now, and tenses as he tries to think of a way to tell her that he never eats in front of anyone; not anymore, not after he first donned his mask. He’s surprised when she says instead, “I’ll leave you to it, then. I figure you still want to get some reading in, but at least now I know that you have some food to tie you over, so…thanks. For indulging me, that is. I know I can be annoying—”

“You’re not,” he cuts in gently. The words leave his mouth without so much of a clearance from his brain, and he stills. He never intended to say them, knowing how kind they are; how dangerously close they are to the feelings still brimming within him, warm and sickly sweet. She stares up at him, equally caught off-guard, but he moves on before either one of them can linger on his words. The air between them has already grown strange. “You should go eat, Summoner. Do not fall into your own habit of tending to everyone and forgetting about yourself. Askr needs you.”

He does not wait for her response. He only bows his head before smoothly ducking around her to continue onto the library, bundled package in hand. She doesn’t chase him—something he’s almost absurdly grateful for. He isn’t certain if he can maintain his indifferent façade towards her, not now.

The library is empty when he enters. He glides to the same corner he’s spent countless hours sitting in, studying and reading, in another lifetime. He sinks into the seat, and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, the tension easing out of him. Moonlight streams through the tall window by his desk, illuminating the bundle as he sets it down in front of him and unties it. There’s a container there, stuffed with food and warm to the touch, paired with a neatly packaged set of cutlery on top.

_They’re called Tupperware, Al. I considered them a godsend in packing away all my leftovers back when I was too tired to cook lunch for work every day._

The dull ache rises again, remembering her voice. He quietly pops open the container’s lid. It’s a rice dish, fried with vegetables and topped off with teriyaki chicken and sauce—a recipe he’s painfully familiar with. It had been one of the first few recipes _his_ Kiran had cooked for him, citing its effectiveness as one of the best recipes of her own world: quick, easy, and tasty.

The first time he tried it, she had laughed at him for finding it too spicy.

_Kiran_ …

The memory _stings_ , but he still musters the effort to pick up the fork. Slowly, he reaches up to undo his mask, a pang of something—the ghostly sensation of hunger, tugging at him from only his memories he tells himself—at the pit of his stomach as he settles down to eat.

It tastes delicious.

**ii ½ .**

He washes the container and cutlery on his own time—down in the kitchens when the chefs have long since retired to bed and it’s empty of any Heroes seeking a late snack—and neatly ties it all back up in the colourful, character-patterned cloth. He waits until she’s away from the castle before he musters up the nerve to quietly approach her room and leave the bundle hanging off her doorknob.

_Coward_ , he thinks to himself, bitterly.

He still slinks off before anyone is the wiser.

**iii.**

He feels more at ease on the battlefield.

It’s simpler, he thinks, to follow orders and strike down those he must. Sökkvabekkr thrives off the chaos of battle, thrumming with dark power as it cleaves through its opponents. He feels the chill of its bloodthirst, and does not waver in cutting down whoever comes before him. This is what he knows. This is all he has left to offer.

He has forgotten, however, what it is like to fight on a team—and what Sökkvabekkr’s power does to any living thing around him.

One moment he’s tearing through the enemy’s left flank, approaching their held fortress; the next, there’s a hand on his arm, keeping him from stalking after the retreating soldiers. He tenses at the touch, as cold as his own undead skin, and twists to find Thrasir frowning back at him. It isn’t the same Thrasir he remembers, but that thankfully hasn’t changed how effectively they fight together. Then again, it isn’t like Thrasir at all to stop him from reaping more souls. He narrows his eyes at her. “What is it?”

“You must know that were it anyone else, I would barely bat an eye for their welfare,” she says, and he’s startled by the glimmer of near-concern in her eyes. Her grip on his arm tightens. “Líf, look at the Summoner.”

Something drops in his chest and he whirls, almost immediately, to do so. Kiran is still behind the protected flank, but it doesn’t take long for him to tell something is amiss. She’s bent over, waving her hand in a placating gesture despite her near-inability to stand; beside her is Brady, who is already fussing and has his staff out, glowing with the unmistakable hue of healing magic. Panic blooms within him. Líf doesn’t realize that he’s already doubling back towards them until he grows close enough to see how pale the Summoner’s complexion is, how she’s struggling to stay on her feet—

“That is _quite_ close enough, Lord Líf!”

Then he’s blocked by Forsyth, who puts down his gigantic green shield with a _clang_ of finality, his Sol Lance gleaming in his other hand. The knight is frowning at him, formidable despite the chinks in his armour, the scrapes on his face, and the near-disarray of his usual impeccable green hair. Líf stares him down, coldly. “Move,” he commands, his voice low. “I must attend to the Summoner.”

“Nah, nobody’s moving, most of all you. You’re the one who did this to her, genius,” comes another wry voice. Python moves to stand beside his best friend, unimpressed as he slowly eyes Líf head to toe. He snorts humourlessly. He looks almost as haggard as Python. “Look, as powerful as you are, you obviously don’t give a rat’s ass about who gets caught in the crossfire of all your fighting. If you did, you would’ve noticed a while back what that _thing_ you call a sword has been doin’ to literally everyone that gets close to it. We both experienced it personally. It’s damn _horrible_ —and I’ve already fought in a bunch of stinkin’ wars before, so that’s saying something.”

Forsyth nods firmly in agreement. “Regardless of my respect for you, Lord Líf, I nonetheless must concur wholeheartedly!” he says, brow furrowing. “You are truly a staggering force upon the battlefield, but the dark energy emanating off your blade strikes at any, be it friend or foe. Were it not for the blessings on my lance—”

“Well then, perhaps you both should have stayed at your posts like you were meant to,” Thrasir cuts in, her voice as icy as her expression. She isn’t keen on the two versus one confrontation, her entire posture radiating tension as she takes a step forward to stand beside Líf, purposefully. “The plan was for Líf and I to handle the left fortress. The rest of you were to take the right.” Her lips curve into a dangerous smile. “Or was that too much for you to handle?”

Python shoots her a flat stare. “Man, you’re a peach,” he mutters. “Even if I was getting paid for all this, I seriously doubt it’d be worth having to deal with psychos like you two. Nobles are bad enough, but two undead _crazy_ ones? _Ha,_ no thanks.”

Líf feels the spark of Thrasir’s magic humming to life. He shoots her a warning glance, but she still reaches for her Ífingr tome, at the same time Python’s fingers run over the fletch of an arrow—

“Okay, okay, let’s all just take a breath, okay?”

—then Kiran is there. She’s still pale, but thankfully standing. She’s also frowning. The disappointment on her face cuts deeper than any blade could. Its effectiveness is almost immediate, judging by how Thrasir’s hand stops seconds from flipping open her tome’s cover and Python grumbles while slipping his arrow back into its quiver. Líf feels the guilt gnawing on him and grasps for words to say, an apology not seeming enough. “Summoner, I—”

He stops when she points a finger at him. “You: stop it. Don’t even say sorry for something you can’t control. Besides, I already knew the effects of your blade. I was just the dummy who underestimated the power of it and figured it would be alright to tag along with you anyway,” she explains, her voice brooking no argument. She turns to face Thrasir. “You: play nice. I know you were worried about me, and I really do appreciate it, but we’re all on the same team here, okay? That goes for you guys, too. It’s flattering in a really scary kinda way that you all care enough to narrowly get into a fight with _each other_ for my sake, but…please don’t. Ever.”

She looks at both Forsyth and Python, the former looking instantly ashamed and the latter looking disgruntled. The tension in the air has still vanished, though; the other Heroes only throw him a sideways glance when they leave back to the battlefield, back to their positions. Thrasir lingers, hesitant, before she too goes when Kiran reassures her they’ll catch up. Líf feels a wave of fondness wash over him—he had almost forgotten how soothing of a presence Kiran had and still has with others—but it’s short-lived when he spots her labouring breath, the slight quiver to her hands. He glances down at Sökkvabekkr and forces himself to tighten his grip on its hilt to prevent himself from throwing it as far as his strength will allow.

A sword of ruin. His sword, the only one that fits him now. The thought haunts him, and his expression darkens.

_And today, it nearly took the life of…_

Somebody pokes him in the forehead, right where his brow is furrowed, and he blanches, instantly startled out of his thoughts. Kiran frowns back up at him. Something tugs at him at the sight, remembering far off days when he would be the one looking up at her instead. He half-expects to see apprehension in her eyes, perhaps regret over choosing to summon such a double-edged sword for a hero like him. Instead, he only sees concern. It takes him a moment to realize it’s concern for _him_ , and the realization narrowly dislodges something in his chest, frail and hopeful and warm.

“Líf,” she’s still watching him carefully. “There’s still one more fortress. Are you still up for it? ‘Cause I am if you are.” Her voice is confident, steady—grounding. She glances down at her phone, tapping at the screen. “Y’know, I think Ares and Ishtar are over there, and if they can fall into Vantage or Desperation range…” She trails off intentionally, her eyes darting back up to look at him hopefully. Her lips quirk into a tiny smile as she reaches out to touch his hand, the same one clenched around Sökkvabekkr’s hilt. She’s mindful not to touch the blade itself, her fingers warm against his armour. “How about it, huh? Will you give me a chance to re-do everything and actually show you that I _can_ strategize, after all?”

He stills. There’s still an apology brimming inside him, on the tip of his tongue, but he knows that isn’t what she wants to hear. She’s already strategizing for his own shortcomings, thinking of a way to use his destructive powers for good. She isn’t seeing him as a liability; she’s seeing him as another Hero that can win the day. It makes him unable to find his voice past the block that’s lodged itself in his throat, stifling the wave of fluttery warmth that’s carving away at all the cold, jagged bits inside him.

So, he nods slowly, uncertain but willing to take a chance.

_For her_ , he allows himself to admit.

Her answering grin makes the warmth grow. Her hand is steady around his wrist as she tugs him forward, back into the fray, as bright and radiant as ever.

This time, Líf does not strain against the light. He only follows her, grounded by her touch, and knows that he will continue to follow her for as long as he can, into the light and beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> did u kno that I'm Super Smart and slapped Líf on my main team without even thinking about strategy because I was so excited over summoning him? so at first his weapon effect made everyone else become easy pickings ... BUT NOW I HAVE LEARNED and now he's on a team that can take advantage of vantage/desp/WOM/etc strategies. yay! he's also incredibly powerful and kinda broken, so i guess it makes sense his sword had to have a set-back of some kind. it still really works if you are not like me (with only one shared braincell tbh) and come up with a proper strategy for him
> 
> anyway, it's always líf-loving hours here (his lv 40 convo broke me). I'm still working on w&w, don't worry, but also have been distracted by DQ XI and school/work;;; BUT like always, thank you all so, so much for all your kind comments and kudos and bookmarks - they breathe new life into my old bones and inspire my muse to actually keep working! ~~selfless even hit 100 kudos and it makes me oddly rly proud lmao~~
> 
> also feh pass sucks and I really hope feh actually takes feedback into consideration. :( the whole latest feh channel was a big ol' bummer ... but at least alm and celica are super-duper cute in the latest banner
> 
> good luck on your summons and don't forget to bug me on my [twitter](http://twitter.com/jeann_eh) if you like!


End file.
